


raabta

by IronSwordStarShield (SweetFanfics)



Series: 616 Stony Bingo 2019 [1]
Category: Marvel 616
Genre: AI Tony, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Hydra Steve Rogers, Sad and Guilty Steve, Tony's always watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/IronSwordStarShield
Summary: The one person who would understand is in a God damned coma and isn’t even-Wait.Steve raises his head and stares contemplatively at his TV, hissmartTV. He’s been off the grid for this trip; no cell phone, no Avengers ID card, cash payments only. But stuff like that has never stopped Tony from tracking him down before. But what’s the odds that if he calls for Tony...What if Tony’s keeping an eye out for him?





	raabta

**Author's Note:**

> Raabta is an urdu word meaning relationship or connection.
> 
> Canon timelines and facts? We know them distantly, like second cousins. This is set right after Hydra Cap was defeated and uhh honestly I was just too excited to write this idea to really check canon compliance but that really wasn't a priority for me so, enjoy!

 

Steve has to see it; needs to see it. It’s punishment as much as it’s facing his denials head first; a monster wearing his face, using his name wiped Las Vegas off the face of the Earth. Steve has to answer for his sins. He’d tried to explain to Sharon why he needs to do this but she doesn’t get it. No one does. The one person who _would_ understand is in a God damned coma and isn’t even-

 

Wait.

 

Steve raises his head and stares contemplatively at his TV, his _smart_ TV. He’s been off the grid for this trip; no cell phone, no Avengers ID card, cash payments only. But stuff like that has never stopped Tony from tracking him down before. But what’s the odds that if he calls for Tony... No. _No_. That’s ridiculous. There’s no way.

 

 _But what if..._ Steve’s dark reflection stares longingly back at him from the TV. _What if Tony’s keeping an eye out for him?_

 

And he has to be. What other reason can there be for _no one_ reporting on the _string_ of bar fights he’s been in since he’s gotten on the road? Who else would have been able to hush it up by suppressing the news before it got out on the waves? It has to be Tony. It’s _got_ to be. He wants to believe _so badly_ that it’s Tony...

 

“Tony,” Steve feels the name slip through his lips, feels the weight of his anticipation and hope down to his bones, “Are you out there?”

 

Steve holds his breath, the world spins on. Outside the motel, a steady stream of traffic moves back and forth. His next door neighbor coughs a terrible cough, going on and on until it culminates in a hacking-spit. Someone further down the hallway has the TV on. From all the moaning going on, it has to be porn.

 

Steve exhales, shoulders tightening as he tries again, feeling like a foolish little boy praying to Santa for a miracle ( _Please help my ma. Please let her get well again. I promise I won’t ask for nothin’ ever again if you just make her better)_ only this time, he’s hoping against hope that the remaining digital presence of his ex-best friend is going to show up on the TV. “Can you hear me?”

 

A truck honks aggressively as it passes by. The neighbor lumbers over to the bathroom and throws the toilet seat up, grunting as he unzips his pants and takes a piss. The moaning continues.

 

Steve closes his eyes, tempting to let gravity take over and pitch backwards onto the bed. Maybe if he’s lucky, if the universe is kind, a hole will open up as soon as he tips backwards and he’ll be swallowed whole. He’s not. Of course he’s not. Steve falls back on the cheap cotton sheets and watches the dust motes dance in front of him.

 

Despair opens its maws and swallows him whole, leaving him behind in darkness. Steve accepts it, letting himself be dragged down in the squall of angry voices accusing him of-

 

There’s an odd _blip_ noise following a painfully familiar voice saying, “Steve.”

 

He can’t believe it. He _can’t_ believe it! But Steve’s body, his eyes, need proof of what he’s hearing so he scrambles up on his elbows and stares wide-eyed at the TV and-

 

“Tony,” Steve breathes out, pushing himself up into a seated position. His heart is racing inside his chest, pounding against his ribs like horse hooves on a racetrack. He takes in the familiar face lit blue, the lines that make up the other man’s face, neck, shoulders. Steve wonders how far the AI’s projection goes. “I didn’t think...It’s good to see you.”

 

The AI nods stiffly. Steve marvels for a moment at Tony’s intellect because who else could make an AI so expressive, so close to human that it can replicate cautious and wariness with a single look. Then again, this AI is basically a back-up of Tony, right? If he’s got all of Tony’s intellect and experience then...he’s Tony. A digital copy of _his_ Tony.

 

 _Not your Tony,_ a dark voice reminds him, _he stopped being your Tony when you almost killed him_.

 

The sense memory of standing on top of Iron Man, shield held up in his hands, ready to strike the final blow overcomes him. His fingers twitch, body forcing a reminder to his brain that no, he’s not there. He’s here, in a small motel called Ollie’s a day’s drive away from San Jose, sitting on a squeaky, too small bed, staring at his TV, on which Tony Stark’s AI is eyeing him up like he’s not sure if Steve’s a threat or not.

 

Breathing out, Steve repeats himself, softer, more heartfelt, “It’s good to see you.”

 

“Likewise.” _Liar_ , Steve wants to say but he holds his tongue. On screen, Tony crosses his arms across his chest. He’s wearing layered shirts, dark over light, the longer sleeved pushed up to his elbows. Steve wonders if the AI can change his wardrobe if he wants. If he even _does_ that in the first place. “How can I help?”

 

The question sounds judgmental. Naturally, Steve’s first instinct is to argue. “Why do you think I called you for help?”

 

“Why else would you call?” The confusion is plain on Tony’s digital face, as is the distant regard. Like Tony’s got better places to be than talk with Steve. Like talking with Steve is a _chore_.

 

Anger and shame heat his face. Steve looks away, wondering why he’d allowed himself that one moment of vulnerability.

 

_Because I was lonely. Because I missed him. Because I thought Tony’d understand..._

 

Steve tiredly rubs his forehead, not sure what he wants, from himself much less anyone else, and sighs. “Sorry. I made a mistake. You can go. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

 

Tony must. Now that he’s an AI, Steve’s sure he must be gleeful at having the ability to work 24/7, be anywhere in a blink, be at peak performance. Why would he want to stay with Steve when he could be anywhere else being productive?

 

Steve’s ready to wallow in self-misery when Tony’s surprisingly gentle, “Steve? Will you look at me please?” catches him off guard. Looking up, he’s met with a worried frown. “What’s wrong?”

 

Everything, Steve wants to say. Everything is _so wrong_. It’s been wrong since the SHRA went public. It’s been wrong since Tony injected himself with Extremis. It’s been wrong since the day Tony disagreed with him about the Supreme Intelligence.

 

He chokes on his answer, pressing a hand against his mouth to keep the sob at bay. Steve forces himself to keep his breathing level, unable to hold Tony’s kind gaze as he admits, “I thought this would help.”

 

 _Running away?_ He hears Sharon’s sardonic voice echoing from his past, when he’d told her of his plan.

 

Tony asks, “Hasn’t it?” So gentle, so curious, like he doesn’t want to hurt Steve.

 

Steve wants to cry because it strikes him since when did he start assuming the worst from Tony? That every ‘bad’ decision he made was rooted in one vice or another, and not perhaps plain old good intentions? Steve’s sure if someone was to draw an illustration from the idiom “the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” it’ll have a drawing of Tony with it because that just about sums his life up, doesn’t it? But the point, he’s trying to make, the epiphany he’s had, is when did he start thinking bad of Tony? Why has he been so quick to assume the worst?

 

 _Because he’s betrayed you more times than you can remember,_ the dark voice from before reminds him.

 

 _So why not forgive him?_ Another voice inquires.

 

Because forgiveness doesn’t come easy for Steve, especially when it comes to his feelings. No, those wounds stay with him, like an infected wound bleeding puss.

 

He shakes his head, to push the mental image away and to answer Tony’s question. “No. I don’t think it’ll help until...”

 

“Until you get to Las Vegas,” Tony finishes for him.

 

 _What’s left of it anyways,_ dries out on the tip of Steve’s tongue. It tastes like ash and Steve chokes on the taste of it. But see? Tony understands, like Steve knew he would. But he presses his lips together, not sure how to broach the subject, not sure if he’s even _allowed_ the _privilege_ of commiseration with Tony anymore.

 

“Do you want my advice?” Tony asks. Steve looks up at the screen, eyes sweeping over the glowing lines that make up Tony’s face, searching for whatever clue he can get before he nods, hungry for guidance. “I don’t think it’ll help. I think you just want to punish yourself. There’s better things to do, better ways to make amends.”

 

Steve’s mind flashes to the campaigns Stark Industries have been running since Steve’s ‘revival’, the few snippets he’s caught on bar TVs, and feels another hot, ugly flush work it’s way up his shirt collar. A question that’s been bubbling in his gut since the first time he’d seen the ad worms its way out of him, completely unbidden.

 

“Why are you doing this? Running those campaigns to clear my name?”

 

“Because you’re Captain America.”

 

It can’t be that simple. It just can’t. Steve shakes his head in disagreement. “I’m not.” _I don’t deserve it,_ goes unsaid.

 

Tony talks over him, ignoring Steve as he continues, “That guy was an impostor and the world needs to know that. They need to know that it wasn’t _you_.”

 

“He had my name, my face, my title.” Steve looks up beseechingly, “You know as well as I do my conscious doesn’t give a _damn_ about the technicalities because when I dream I see myself doing all those things. I see myself...”

 

Nausea sweeps over him, vicious and sudden, leaving Steve to make a mad dash towards the too small bathroom before he throws up. He misses the toilet, leaving a pale streak over the tiles before he empties the rest of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. Steve wants to believe that one day he’ll forget everything he-his evil doppelganger had done, that he’ll be able to look at his hands and not think of them as blood stained. But he doubts that day will ever come; the curse of an eidetic memory and a personality too fond of bleeding on guilt’s sharp thorns.

 

Wiping his face clean with the back of his hand, Steve spits one last time into the toilet bowl before he flushes it. He unrolls some toilet paper and spreads it over the vomit, telling himself he’ll clean it later. A quick gargle and Steve heads back out, feet dragging. He drops heavily back into his seat, eyes lowered to the carpet as he asks, tone low and dull, “Why did you do it Tony? Really?”

 

The pause that follows may as well be as long as a lifetime because that’s how long it stretches for Steve’s aggravated nerves. They’re frayed at the edges as it is and now they snap under the pressure, sensitive nerve endings screaming as they’re exposed to air. Steve hangs his head, ready for the guillotine’s blade to fall on his bared neck.

 

“It’s you.” His head snaps up at that. A corner of Tony’s lips are turned up in his helplessly sad smile. His broad shoulders rise and fall in a hard shrug. “I’ll always help you.”

 

“But why? After everything that happened, everything I said, everything I _did_.”

 

More sense memories assault Steve; the non-weight of the EMP cradled in his palm, the sensation of Tony’s cheek against his knuckles, the coolness of his shield before it slipped out of his hands, the righteous, raging fire that had burned in his belly as he’d watched Iron Man walk out of the SHIELD holding cell.

 

Older memories swim up as well. Accusing Tony that he’s been drinking again. Walking out on him when he’d been at the bottom of the bottle, at the end of his rope. Yelling at him so many times, needlessly accusing...

 

Steve stares at Tony and wonders, _why would you protect me like this? After everything I’ve said and done, why?_

 

“You once told me that you believed in people. And that you believed in Iron Man. Well. Iron Man believes in Steve Rogers. Captain America.”

 

That hits him harder than any punch in his _life_. Steve stares at Tony, distantly aware of how his mouth has fallen open and is struggling to formulate words, a response to this... this... open show of trust.

 

“How can you still trust me?”

 

There’s a spark of something that comes and goes in Tony’s eyes before Steve can even process it. “The same way you trusted me to look after Bucky and your shield after you got shot.”

 

 _Fuck_. His body slides forward, dropping to his knees, which have turned to water. Tony’s figure darts forward, like he’s forgotten he’s not here at the motel with Steve and could catch him before he falls to the carpeted floor. How Steve _wishes_ that Tony were here, that way he could grab Tony and hug him, hide his tears in Tony’s shirt, heart bleeding because how could he have let this happen? Let their friendship get to this point, shredded and torn until it’s barely recognizable? He buries his face in his hand, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where everything went wrong between them.

 

He can’t. There’s too many options.

 

“Steve? Steve! Should I call someone? Are you okay? Talk to me Steve.”

 

Shaking his head, Steve disregards the questions. He looks up at Tony, pleads, “It isn’t too late, is it? For us?”

 

Tony seems dumbstruck and stricken at the same time but the expression melts into something painfully tender, like a single flower bud pushing its way out of a field of snow. “I’d want to believe it isn’t.”

 

Hope washes over Steve; it tastes like cool, sweet water. He could drown it and cry in happiness for it. “Can you come over?” It’s selfish, he knows it but... “I miss you.”

 

The happiness that blossoms over Tony’s face is a field of purple lavender, pink tulips, yellow sunflowers. It’s bright, it’s vibrant, it’s _life_. “I’ll be there in half an hour, give or take a couple of minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Am I going for a blackout? Yes, I am >:3
> 
>  


End file.
